Loki, Hadley Zenobia, and I

Curly fake-furred wriggly bag of bones,

Puppy skin so thin his vital ticking outclicks my own.

Fearfully four times I palm that fragile chest,

Wobble downstairs in the dark

Attach a lifeline, send him out

To steam an urgent thimbleful in snow.

In my arm’s crook I cradle my pink-swathed

First grandchild as I did her father years ago.

Named for England’s green and rolling hills

And an ancient Syrian warrior-queen.

Her frame too soft to swing a sword,

Last night her voice could rouse an army.

Despite a forehead daubed with Wednesday’s grit,

“Remember, man, that thou art dust,” somberly intoned,

In this night of earnest closed-eye prayer

I cannot draw a humbled breath.  This life instilled

Warmed guarded so exceeds the dry cold stone

Instead I sense the hand that holds me.

c 2006